


Feathers for a price

by Katinka01



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blood, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's Fall (Good Omens), Emotional, Love, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Apocalypse, Softness, Wing Grooming, Wings, they love each other okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katinka01/pseuds/Katinka01
Summary: Once upon a time, Crowley was known as Raphael. When the War of Heaven came, he did what he was supposed to. Or at least what he felt right. He healed whoever he could on both sides. But healing demons came with a price. Now, looking back on it from the comfort of their little cottage, during some wing grooming Crowley looks back and smiles.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 105





	Feathers for a price

Raphael walks through the battlefield, occasionally kneeling to check on the wounded and heal what he can. He shudders at some of the wounds he sees. The war was brutal. He has seen angels fight before, but sparring was far different than the savagery of the battle. He scoffs. It makes no sense, really. Like, yeah, he wasn’t extremely into what Lucifer was on about, his brother was getting a bit out of hand, but his questions were valid, and they made sense. They could have tried to listen. So why escalate it this far? To the point of family killing family, the point of separating them, making questioners Fall, casting them out. Many of those new demons were once his friends. Why should he discriminate about who he saves? So he walks the battlefield, stumbling in blood and over bodies, and kneels down beside every single demon and heals. The angels have other healers to help them out. He is the only one helping the demons. He is the only one that dares. So he goes, heals what he can, though his hands shake from the horror and the anger he feels because of this stupid war. He doesn’t understand. Couldn’t Mother just explain? Give a hint? Something?! But no, she is stubbornly quiet, while her children are destroying each other.

He is shaken out of his reverie by someone grasping and tugging at the end of his robe. The demon is bleeding out of several deep wounds. He looks so afraid. So Raphael kneels yet again, once white robe now stained dark with the drying blood of his family, and he helps. Or would, when a hand grabs his shoulder, tearing him away from his patient.

“Raphael.” It’s Gabriel who grabbed him, and his eyes are wide with something Raphael recognizes as fear. “You have to stop.” Raphael shrugs the hand off and takes a step away from his brother.

“I most certainly will not.”

“They are demons.”

“They are our family!”

“Not anymore!”

“How can you even say that?! Look at them, You know them, we used to all be together! This whole war is insane, and if you think you can stop me from helping to save some lives, then you are wrong!”

At this, Gabriel forcefully grabs at Raphael’s left wing, dragging it forward, ignoring a pained and alarmed groan from the other angel. “Look! Look at this! Look at what you’re doing!”

The tips of the wings are tainted black. Raphael stares.

“Every healing you do for the opposite side, every demon, costs you a feather. You are condemning yourself!” No wonder Gabriel seemed so afraid.

Raphael continues staring. So this is the cost. Is he really betraying their Mother so much by helping, by doing what he is meant to, that it has such a price? He almost laughs as he looks to the sky, with fire in his eyes and a face of defiance.

“Do you really think this will stop me?”

It doesn’t. He heals and heals, and slowly each feather soaks in the blood of the fallen and turns black. And as Raphael heals, Crawley Falls.

“Crowley, dear, your wings are a mess,” Aziraphale’s voice is playful and teasing as he cards his fingers through the feathers on Crowley’s left wing. The right one is already smooth and shining. Crowley chuckles.

“Not nearly as bad as yours, angel. I can barely wait to get my hands on them, they hurt my eyes in their current state,” Crowley quips back, turning his face towards the sun a bit more to soak in the warmth as they sit in the grass, his smile turning into more of a smirk. Aziraphale merely scoffs good-naturedly and pushes his fingers deeper, massaging the muscle underneath, making Crowley all but melt. “Oookay, never mind, take as long as you like.”

The angel’s smile widens as he continues grooming the wing. He appreciates that now, in their new reality, he gets to do this, gets to touch and caress and love freely and out loud. He loves their new home, their little cottage in the South Downs, with their garden out front. He loves their morning, of waking up together, the quiet morning sitting at the kitchen table with sleepy smiles and kisses. He loves their routines and their walks and their stargazing dates where Crowley tells stories of his creations and reading together on the couch while sharing a bottle of wine. But what he loves most is how much softer Crowley is. The freedom has stripped some of his sharpness, made his smiles easy, his laughter loud. It made him comfortable to trust Aziraphale with the vulnerability of his wings, and it makes the angel’s heart nearly burst with love.

“Still, your wings are beautiful,” Aziraphale says as he reaches the edge of the wing.

“Not as beautiful as yours, angel.”

“Mm, I disagree, love. They are the most beautiful shade of midnight black, and they are soft and warm. I think they fit you.”

“Fits, huh.” Crowley’s expression takes on a wistful edge. He thinks of the battlefield, of pain, and of blood-soaked feathers. He thinks of questions and defiance and doing what one thinks is right regardless of what others think. He thinks of the fall, thinks of six thousand years, of friendship and love and he thinks ‘worth it’. And then he looks over his shoulders at his angel, all smiles and affection and he grins. “Yeah. White was never my color anyway.” He watches as Aziraphale laughs.

“Alright, angel, now turn around, let me fix those wings of yours.”


End file.
